


To teach an old crook new tricks

by vaguely_concerned



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:27:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaguely_concerned/pseuds/vaguely_concerned
Summary: Now, as anyone could tell you I ain’t a complicated man. I enjoy a well-made shotgun and a good fight, being paid up front, mediocre liquor and the look T.F. gets in his eyes when he’s come up with somethin’ clever and illegal we’re about to try our hands at.But this is better’n all of it. It’s like the thrill when we pull off a big job, ‘cept no one’s even shootin’ at us and his eyes are only on me. He’s still grinning, and distantly I realize that so am I.The boys manage to get a job wrapped up a few days early and use the unexpected downtime to engage in some… celebrating! Set a decent amount of time after ‘Destiny and Fate’ and ‘Double-Double Cross’.
Relationships: Malcolm Graves/Twisted Fate
Comments: 23
Kudos: 80





	To teach an old crook new tricks

The door closes behind us, shutting out the hum of music and laughter and the occasional burgeoning bar fight filtering up from the inn’s other patrons downstairs. I take a moment to make sure the door’s properly locked before I follow T.F. into the room, where he’s already swannin’ around like he owns the place.

“Don’t know about you, but I think that went pretty well,” T.F. says, taking his hat off and placing it down on the table in the corner — I eye the hat mournfully for a split second; every now and then I still dream about that time he kept it on the entire time we were doin’ it. I wonder if I could convince him to do it again at some point if I make it out like it’s a bet, without having to show my hand about it. He knows enough of my weak spots already, no point in giving him the ammunition. “We got away scot-free, the jewels are in hands that will better appreciate them — ” namely, our hands, “and no one even died.”

“Probably,” I agree, kicking my boots off by the door and puttin' Destiny down at the side of the bed, then dropping our bag next to her. The bag makes a very valuable-sounding tinkling noise as it hits the floorboards. Eh, it’ll be fine, diamonds are hardy, right? 

“No one died who we knew,” T.F. allows, giving a sweeping gesture with his arms because he’d probably die if he did one single thing in his life without adding some flair to it. “Smooth and easy. Ah, I love a happy ending.”

Post-job satisfaction always did suit him, there’s no other man alive who could make _smug_ look so damn good. I have half a mind to drop to my knees right here and pull him in by the hips without any further preamble, but I guess my knees wouldn’t thank me for that. 

He shrugs his coat off and hangs it over the back of a chair, then rests his hands on his hips as he surveys the room. “Well, at least it’s clean,” he says, sounding resigned. “I guess stayin’ clear of bedbugs is the best you can do sometimes.”

The windows have curtains that actually match, the bed’s got more than two pillows, and there are no old blood stains anywhere to be found; as far as I’m concerned these are the hallmarks of a needlessly swanky place, but hey, whatever makes him happy and less likely to bitch about it the whole stay. 

The bed looks nice and sturdy, which is really all that matters for my purposes here tonight.

Thankfully he doesn’t leave me hanging for long, sauntering casually towards me over the floor. He’s got that light in his eyes that makes anticipation coil pleasurably in my stomach.

“And to top it all off we got the job done with a couple of days to spare before the client shows up for the delivery. I’d say it calls for a celebration,” he says, stopping just in front of me, close enough to touch. I don’t, though, not yet. 

“Yeah?” I say instead, feigning at least a semblance of innocence. “What kinda celebrating are we talking about? ‘Cause if we’re imbibing you’re using your own damn cut to pay your tab this time, I ain’t playing you for it again.”

“All the forbearance and generosity of spirit of a Bilgewater fishwife,” he sighs mock-mournfully, resting his hand on my hip. The touch seems startlingly warm even through my clothes. “And it ain’t cheating at cards unless you can tell the other guy how he did it, you know the rules.”

“I greatly regret institutin’ that rule, in hindsight.”

He gives a self-satisfied little smirk, which is annoying both on its own and for how desperately hot it always gets me. It’s the sort of thing that happens when the wrong kinda head is left to do the thinkin’, I reckon. “It’s proved a bit of a double edged sword, hasn’t it. I’d say something about hoisting and petards, but that would be petty of me.”

“Yeah, thank goodness you’re above that, or else where would we be,” I comment dryly.

His smile warms with genuine amusement. My self control begins to crumble and I fit my hand to his waist, shifting closer like I’m so many iron filings before a magnet. 

His fingers pick out a meandering path up my chest until they come to rest against my neck, his thumb on my jaw guiding the tilt of my head this way and that with only the barest hint of pressure needed. 

“Well, if drinks and cards are off the table I suppose we’ve just gotta come up with some way to make our own entertain — mmmh.”

Finally my patience snaps and I tug him in by the small of his back, kissing the hell out of him. His laugh puffs against my chin before he meets my lips with his. He keeps one hand on my jaw and grabs the back of my shirt with the other one, using the grip to get me even closer as he insinuates his thigh between my legs. 

It’s — well, it’s good. Always is with him. 

I palm the curve of his ass and squeeze, causing his hips to jerk against me satisfyingly. Without me quite noticing between kisses he steers us over towards the bed until the backs of my knees hit the edge of it, using his weight to guide me to lie down safely instead of flailing and crackin’ my skull against the wall or somethin’. Hell, I’ve spent half my life at this point watching him use misdirection and charm and observation to lead a mark right where he wants ‘em without them ever noticing, and even I ain’t entirely immune to it. Doesn’t bother me much when this is what he chooses to do with it, though; he’s following me down like every moment our mouths spend apart is a lamentable oversight, kneeling over me as one of his hands sneak down between my legs to fondle me through my pants while the other makes quick work of the top few buttons of my shirt. 

“The hell are you doin’ all the way up there, come down here,” I demand, my hands finding their way back to his backside and hauling him in so our fronts are pressed close the whole way. 

He goes down with a snicker that briefly turns into a groan as I roll our hips together, long and slow and deliberate.

“Hey now, we’ve got time to savour,” he says, waving a luxuriating hand. “The night is still young.” 

“Sure, but I ain’t so much anymore.”

“Nonsense, we’re the same age.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Yup.” 

“Hm. I get the sense you might be trying to imply something here, in your fumbling way, but I’m sure I can’t imagine what it is.”

I give a chortle at his air of studious ignorance as he does away with another button on my shirt, thumbing it open so he can run his fingers through my chest hair. Then he sucks at my bottom lip, scraping carefully over it with his teeth, and I close my eyes and tilt my head to make him kiss me properly. 

While we make out I gently rock up against him, and his hips slide into the rhythm along with me like it’s the most natural thing in the word, until it’s almost like an echo of what it’s like when he’s actually inside me, his quickening breath against my mouth as we go through the motions if not the actual act. My cock doesn’t seem to care too much about the differentiation right now. The soft ceaseless rocking is enough to fill my head with all the times he’s actually been buried deep while we do this — I had some reservations before we tried it that way the first time, but as can probably be deduced he quickly dispelled those with characteristic panache and talented fingers. He’s making low intent sounds as he brushes our lips together. Gods, what I wouldn’t give for that card magic of his to be able to strip away our clothes in an instant so he could just push it into me already, what’s the damn point in throwin’ around fireballs and popping in and out of thin air if it can’t even do that, huh? 

“Oh. Oh, we… hey, hang on, it’d — ah, Malcolm — it’d be real embarrassing to go off in our pants like teenagers before we even get started,” he laughs finally, pressing an apologetic kiss to the corner of my mouth as he stills his hips with what seems like some heroic store of willpower. 

“That’s fine, never found any use for my dignity anyway,” I say absently, but I know he’ll moan about it for years and years if we ruin his finely tailored trousers like that and so I let him move his weight away even as all I burn to do is to pull him back on top of me. I feel a little bit unhinged with it, with how much I want to run my hands along his naked thighs and taste the pulse at his neck. I swear it wasn’t ever like this before him. I used to have things like _composure_ and _self-respect_. Though to be fair I wasn’t using those for anythin’ much either, it’s been an undeniably fruitful trade. 

He blinks quickly a few times, a faint hint of pink high in his cheeks now. He doesn’t look quite as wild-eyed about it as I feel, but he’s definitely not unmoved either. Well. Good.

I’m startin’ to put together a plan of action for tonight.

As if to buy some time to recollect himself he lies down on his back among the pillows.

“Like I said, we’ve got all night and nothin’ to do but each other,” he says easily, stretching out his long legs with every sign of enjoyment and letting them fall calculatedly open as they come to rest. Man, he’s mean sometimes, and it probably says somethin’ unflattering about me how much I enjoy it. 

I snort at the wordplay. “That’s low, even for you.” He makes a lazy sound like he’ll concede that point but doesn’t regret it one bit. “We could just go more than one round.” 

“And I certainly plan to, but not while fully dressed.”

I move up the bed towards him and his teeth briefly catch on his bottom lip as he watches, a tell the size of the moon coming from him. It makes me wonder how much of this is him struggling to keep control of himself. He ain’t fond of havin’ to act before he can think about it. It’s why he’s hardly actually gambled a day in his life. Like he says, it ain’t gambling if you’ve made sure you can’t lose before you’re even sitting down at the table to play. 

Guess that’s why we work so well together, ‘cause by nature _I’ll_ always prefer to barge in and take the bastards by surprise and then shoot the problems as they pop up rather’n sitting around focusing overmuch on ‘might’s and ‘if’s and ‘maybe’s, ‘cause at the end of the day no man can ever plan well enough to account for the other guy just gettin’ randomly lucky. (T.F.’s likely gotten the closest any mortal soul could, but Lady Luck is a fickle mistress to go courtin’ no matter how charming you are. It’s why I stay around to watch his back. And other parts of him too nowadays, if I’m given even half a chance.) 

And then, on the other hand… cowards die a thousand deaths and all that, but it’s good odds I would’ve been literal, proper, not-in-the-spiritual-or-figurative-sense six feet down and done for by thirty if it weren’t for him and his outs. What I’m sayin’ is that we tend to get the most shit done when we manage to meet in the middle. To that end our partnership has benefited greatly from adding the option of working out our differences by fucking each other’s brains out until neither of us quite remembers what our arguments _were_ exactly, anyway, and we can start over from scratch. Look at us, practicing conflict resolution and shit in our maturity. And they say you can’t teach an old crook new tricks. 

Once I’m close enough he reaches out to hook his fingers into the sleeve of my shirt, not tugging or doin’ anything much with the grip at all except to run his thumb through the hair on my forearms in soft circles as he watches me. 

“Well, I ain’t no Piltover egghead, but I believe I can come up with a solution to this conundrum,” I say, using my free hand to undo the top button of his waistcoat. 

His eyes crease. “Remember to show your work, now,” he says, letting my sleeve go and crossing his legs at the ankles. 

I start in on the rest of the waistcoat, grunting in frustration at the unending row of polished buttons that all seem to take some perverse delight in slipping between my fingers. “Son of a — how come all your clothes gotta be like this?”

“Like what? Clean? Tailored? Less than five years old?” 

I don’t dignify that with a response: I’m a man on a mission and I’ve got more important stuff to focus on than his sass. After the third time one particular button eludes me I pause, pensively gazing at the remaining ones. 

“You rip that and I’m teleporting my ass out that window and leaving you to your own devices for the rest of the night,” T.F. says pleasantly, head leaned back and pillowed in his hands, having correctly divined my line of thought. It ain’t necessarily an idle threat either; he always keeps a card wedged between the mattress and the bedframe, within easy reach just in case someone should manage to track us down and decide on a surprise visit in the middle of the night. I mean, he still probably wouldn’t _actually_ up and leave in a huff like that over it. Probably. 

“Just as you say, _Your Highness_.” Instead of tearing it off him like I want to, I undo each button with obsequious, exaggerated care, causing him to roll his eyes but apparently not moving him enough to pitch in. Once he’s done shrugging out of his waistcoat and shirt he moves in on my clothes, though, lightning-quick hands divesting me of my shirt and then darting halfway down my pants before I have time to blink.

“Whoa there,” I chuckle, hurriedly grabbin’ on to the headboard with one hand and T.F.’s shoulder with the other to keep from toppling off the bed.

T.F. buries his face against my neck as he pushes my trousers down my thighs, takes a moment to nip at my earlobe with his teeth. Kinda tickles, but in a ‘fuck me’ sort of way. I shudder happily. “You were takin’ too long. Also these pants remain an insult. To me. Specifically against my person and world view.” 

“Eh, they’re fine,” I say, collaborating as best I can to get the — perfectly serviceable, to reiterate — garment in question all the way off and thrown carelessly across the room somewhere. Ever the opportunist he takes the chance to fondle my bared thighs, smoothing along the muscle there with his palms and a pleased air. “A few stitches and they’re good as new. Ain’t buying a new pair until the holes start revealing somethin’ more embarrassing than a knee.” 

“I suppose your insistence on waltzing around in rags does make it easier for me to shine brighter through contrast alone,” T.F. says philosophically, resting his hand in the middle of my chest and gently pushing me down to the bed while he stays kneelin’ over me. 

I go along easily enough, sprawled among the sheets, and T.F. doesn’t move his hand away from my chest once I’m there. “See? I’m practically providing a service just standing next to you, by all rights I oughta charge for it. But hey, what are partners for if not stayin’ around ‘n reflecting on you favorably.”

T.F.’s smiling lopsidedly where he’s leaning over me, but there’s somethin’ in his eyes he’s too distracted to hide away — he looks sad, almost, soft and a little befuddled.

I frown slightly, resting my hand on his thigh. “Tobias?”

“I guess that is what they’re for,” he murmurs, his hair falling over his shoulder and into his face as he bends to press a long, soft kiss to my mouth. It kinda takes me by surprise, though it’s no hardship at all to push back into him when he sighs and parts his lips to invite me. I clumsily tuck some of his hair out of his face and behind his ear, the texture silky against the calluses on my fingers. 

He lingers a few seconds more after our mouths part and when he pulls back he’s mostly put himself together unruffled and smiling again, except for a tiny crease still between his brows. Solemnly I press my finger to the center of his forehead like I can smooth it out, snorting as he goes cross-eyed trying to glance up at it. He clicks his tongue and swats my hand away, but the grin on his face is real now.

“Real mature.” 

I hook my fingers into the belt loops of his fancy, way-too-tight-but-hey-I-ain’t-complaining pants and tug. “C’mon, you too. Don’t leave me hangin’ here.”

“You’re plenty hung already,” he says cheerily, sniggering when I groan and punch him in the arm. “Yeah, okay, I suppose that one was beneath me. I’d say I was sorry — ” 

“But you ain’t,” I say darkly, framing his hips with my hands. 

“Exactly. You know me too well.” 

Stealin’ another kiss he deftly deals with his belt and the rest of his clothes one-handed, the show-off. Once he’s naked he settles between my thighs, planting one elbow by my shoulder and resting his chin in his palm to gaze down at me like he’s idly making up his mind about what he wants to do with me. I try to keep it off my face that his slightly proprietary consideration sends a stark wave of heat through me — like I said, he’s already got enough on me to last a lifetime, no point in givin’ anything more away for free. 

Hoping to create some kind of diversion I set about runnin’ my hand along the curve of his back and then down to rest over the swell of his ass, pleasantly full under my palm even if he’s a lanky scrawny sprawl of a man otherwise. He can get a lot of work done with those narrow hips with the right motivation, though. I should know. 

His free hand trails down my body until he reaches my cock, his fingers brushing teasingly against the shaft a few times before wrapping around it properly and giving a few leisurely strokes. The heat in his gaze is sharper now, heavy with intent behind his relaxed smirk. 

Sensing where this is going from long experience I quickly wind my arm around his waist and flip our positions, because it is indeed perfectly lovely when he takes the reins, but that’s not what I had planned for the evening and once I give him an inch he’ll eat up the miles until I don’t remember what day it is, much less what I’d been meaning to do before he got started.

He gives a squawk of surprise but lets himself be manhandled, flopping back on the bed and welcoming my bulk between his thighs eagerly.

“Now this might just be my years of studying the subtleties of human nature over the card table talkin’, but I’d swear you’ve got something particular in mind here, Mr. Graves,” he muses. 

I make a non-committal sound, enjoying the sensation of him shifting beneath me. “Maybe so.”

“Subtle like a brick to the face,” he says fondly, hooking his leg over the back of my thigh and running his foot up and down the shin.

“You’ve often said,” I say, accepting the compliment. Subtlety’s a waste of time, nine times outta ten, and that tenth time I tend to just leave it to him, rather than messin’ around with it myself. 

I wrap one hand around his wrists and pin them against the mattress, earning me a groan and an unmistakable roll of his hips where they’re trapped between my body and the bed. He likes that, bein’ held in place — whether in general or just with me I don’t know and I’m not gonna ask, lest I get an answer I won’t know what to do with, which would be any answer. Not like he wouldn’t be able to throw out a distraction and slip away in a heartbeat if he really wanted to — slipperiest son of a bitch I ever knew, I reflect with affection, and I am big enough to admit that I’m unusually given to distraction at these times — but he smiles up at me in half-lidded smugness, like I’m playing right into his hands by keeping him incapacitated. 

“Aww shucks, seems like my goose is well and truly cooked,” he drawls, deliberately writhing against my weight over him in a way that lights a fire low in my gut. “So what’ll it be, big guy? What’cha want to happen, now that you’ve got me at your mercy?” 

At another time I might have taken a moment to roll my eyes at the theatrics, but I’ve got a hunger in me tonight that doesn’t leave space for it. Instead I lean down so I can speak close to his ear, his breath hot against my jaw. 

“I wanna fuck you right through this bed,” I growl. “And then against every wall in this room until you’re sobbing for it. And then maybe in the bath too, after that, if we can keep it up that long,” I add thoughtfully. Some logistical issues to solve there, probably, but hey, I ain’t one to back down from a challenge and that’s a bridge to burn when we get to it and so on.

Tobias laughs, bright and breathless, the same sound of frank and open delight as when his cards show him somethin’ unexpected. “Those are some big promises to make. I’d accuse you of not doin’ the maths on this one, but I know better than to think you ever do.” 

“I have spent my whole life not thinkin’ things through, and I sure as hell ain’t about to start now,” I say dismissively. “‘S called integrity, or somethin’.”

“You could call it _somethin’_ , alright,” T.F. murmurs, though his legs are coming up to wrap around my waist with enough open want that it weakens the sarcasm significantly. 

Magnanimously ignoring that comment I lift my eyebrows at him. “Besides, we’ve got the room all of tonight and tomorrow, unless they throw us out over the noise complaints. Where’s your sense of adventure, man?” 

He makes a face as if to concede the point. “In an unprecedented turn of events I find myself agreeing with you more the longer I hear you speak.”

“So you in or not?” It’s pure formality; I can feel the rock hard evidence of just how on board he is with the idea against my hip, twitching lazily as I tighten my grip on his wrists a moment before lettin’ them go. He lets his arms stay slung over his head, his whole body a languid twist towards me in both enjoyment and challenge. 

“Deal me in, partner,” he purrs, amusement and arousal dancing a jaunty little jig together in his eyes.

Gods, I’m gonna pound him into the mattress until it’s so good he _cries_. 

But first, a tiny bit of forward plannin’. Yeah, I know, we change with age sometimes. I fumble through the bag that holds most of what we carry with us on our migratory paths of evading five different flavors of the law, ignoring the clinking of the gold and jewels of today’s haul with mild irritation until I find the small bottle of oil and hold it up with a triumphant cry, earning me a chuckle. Returning to the bed I put the bottle down on the nightstand and find my place between his legs again, pulled down for a kiss that’s downright sordid. He’s into this, alright. 

Once he relinquishes my mouth I move to kiss my way down his neck and collar bone until I can suck a bruise there, then scrape my teeth carefully over a nipple to make him jerk. He swears appreciatively under his breath and pushes up into the touch, cupping the back of my neck in his hand. I start running my hands over his thighs in lingering circles, guiding his legs more open with each pass. 

As I slowly make my way down his body I leave a trail of love bites down his side and hip, though he’s shivering and moaning and bucking at each one and it’s makin' it pretty hard to work.

“Stop squirmin’ around like a damned eel in a bucket,” I lift my head to complain, trying to pin his hip in place with my hand with limited success. 

“Stop bein’ a tease,” he counters cheerfully, unrepentant. Well now. 

I gather him up by his skinny hips, startling a gasp out of him as I sling his legs over my shoulders and suck the next mark into the inside of his thigh. Would like to see even him wriggle out of this hold in a hurry. T.F. gulps out a breath, his hands fisting the sheets even as he lets his thighs fall even more open for me and his head drops back on the pillow.

“That’s what you get,” I say sternly, keeping a secure grip on his waist as I nip at the skin over his hipbone with my teeth. “Let a man work in peace.” 

“Malcolm,” he groans, sounding less than chastised, one hand releasing its death grip on the sheets to clumsily cup the back of my head, thumb brushing restlessly over my hairline at the temple. His pupils are blown, wide and dark. 

All the rest of it is great too, but this is the best part. Nothin’ more satisfying than making him resort to honesty, usually through the application of a little bit of tongue and a lot of stubborn patience. After lavishing some attention on each of his thighs I turn my head to mouth at his dick — we’ve been at this thing for a while now and I’ve gotten the hang of it; it’s easy to fall into the pace that’ll best drive him to distraction but not over the edge. Not until I’m done with him. 

I suck him off for a while, occasionally grunting in satisfaction at how he feels in my mouth and the ineffectual twitches of his hips towards me, until the pink has risen to his cheeks to stay and there’s a light sheen of sweat over his forehead and where my hands are keeping him in place. When I pull away he gives a sigh of mixed disappointment and anticipation, meeting my gaze with heavy-lidded intensity. He’s breathin’ heavily now, his chest rising and falling.

Moved by something I can’t quite put a name to I take a moment to press my mouth to his belly, no heat to it this time, just a brush of lips against smooth salty skin. When I look up again he’s smiling, soft-eyed and quiet like no one’s watching. He rests his thumb at the corner of my mouth and doesn’t say anythin’. 

Now for the part demanding a mite more dexterity. Retrieving the bottle from the nightstand and sticking my tongue out the corner of my mouth I manage to uncork it and get the oil over my hand without spillin’ it all over the bed, then adjust his legs over my shoulders and circle around his hole with my fingers before pushing one inside. He groans and I swallow him back down, rubbing my tongue along the underside of the shaft while I stretch him open, pumping into him with two fingers at first and then three when I find the spot inside that sends him shuddering and gasping, making sure to press down there with every pass. He ain’t got no leverage at all like this, forced to take things at the pace I set rather than twisting and turning things to his whim. It’s good for him, probably, givin’ up a little control every now and then. I certainly mean to make him not regret it in the slightest. 

It’s good when we do it the other way around as well — lettin’ him run the show and do brilliant things with his fingers and mouth and cock until I barely remember my name or which way is up — but that ain’t what I’m after tonight. I want to make a mess of him; push him down between the sheets and part his thighs and leave marks on him with my mouth and my fingers, muss up his carefully oiled hair and his poised charm and his fancy clothes and hear him cry out without thinkin’, strip away every smooth clever layer he’s wrapped himself in until I’ve got him honest and raw in my arms. I want him as messy and as desperate with it as I feel. I want to touch him.

I close my eyes and nose at the curly hair at the base of his dick, listenin’ to his voice start to break on pleasure. 

Despite what evil tongues — mine included, to be fair — have claimed, I actually do give things a fair bit of thought, sometimes. Takes me a while to muddle through, but it ain’t a race and I usually get there in the end. Important things are worth giving the time they need, I reckon. I spent ten years thinkin’ ‘bout him all wrong, I can afford to take my time over it now that I’m seein’ clearly again. 

Ten years is more than enough time to change a man, but he hasn’t, really. He might dress swankier now and have taken on that damn silly name, gotten even more practiced at hidin’ himself in the Find the Lady shuffle so he’ll never really have to show his hand. Doesn’t work on me, though. I knew most of what I needed to know about him the moment he saw the eight aces we’d put on the table between us and we both burst out laughing at the same time before he offered his hand to me over the table. I’ve seen him seasick, drunk, and so pitifully hung over that he sat curled up in an armchair facing a dark corner the whole day and just whimpered every time I tried to talk to him in anythin’ louder than a whisper. I’ve seen him in ladies’ lingerie — granted that was one time for a job, and to his credit it worked exactly like he said it would. He’s saved my life and I’ve saved his so many times it sorta doesn’t make sense to keep count anymore even if either of us remembered the actual numbers. At some point ‘home’ stopped meaning Bilgewater alone and started meaning whatever place we were usin’ as a base to plan a job, ‘cause that’s where he’d be. 

I’d say I know him better’n I know myself, except that really ain’t sayin’ much, I suppose. 

There are some ways to know someone that can’t be unknown, and I guess the worst part of it all when it looked like he’d screwed me over was that it’d meant all of it had been a lie. I ain’t much for words, so I can’t explain how, exactly, but it means everything that it wasn’t, that he was still there and still him when I got out and back to my senses.

“Okay, okay, better back off a bit or this is gonna be over prematurely,” he pants finally, gently pushing my head away. 

“Huh? Yeah, sure.” Tell the truth, I’d sort of forgotten about my plan there for a hot second, good thing he pays attention. For the hell of it I curl my fingers a few more times inside him before I pull ‘em out, watching with interest as he bites his lip and his eyes flutter shut. He can go off just from this sometimes, when I get it right. Filing that idea away for later tonight. Or tomorrow mornin’, maybe, I’m not as young as I used to be, no matter how inspiring the mental image. 

A few locks of hair have fallen into his face, clinging to his brow, and he shakes it out of his eyes as he sets about arranging some pillows with admirable swiftness. Then he lounges back against them nonchalantly like he knows exactly what he looks like and that it’s making significant parts of my brain shut down shop for the duration. His long legs are stretched out, the sharp jut of his hip callin’ out to my hands like a foghorn. 

With a conspiratorial little grin he cocks his head at me expectantly, his fingers drumming against his thigh. 

To work, then. 

After coating myself with the oil as well I slide in between his legs and lean over him, discovering that his previous casualness was in fact a devious front when he immediately pounces once I’m in range and ensnares me with all his limbs. His fingers map out the scars and bumps that make up the expanse of my back as he licks into my mouth, humming at findin’ the taste of himself there. Despite my best intentions I get lost in it for a while, derailed enough that I just follow where he leads with his confidence man sureness and surprisingly gentle hands. 

Without lifting his mouth from mine he wraps his hand around my dick to guide me into position until the head is pressed right up against him, and then all I need to do is to push forward and inside. 

“Tobias,” I mumble — normally he’d give me grief about that, he still gets touchy about the name thing, but for whatever reason he seems happy to let it go when it slips out in bed. Instead he gives a distracted sound of somethin’ like agreement and shifts his hips with a sigh as I bottom out, buried in him to the hilt. 

He’s so warm inside, clenched around me like he’s loath to let go every time I pull out just a little to adjust. He makes a strangled sound as I hitch his thighs further up my hips to get a better angle, his arms winding around my shoulders. 

“You good?” I ask hoarsely, checkin’ in before I get started for real. 

“Sure, so long as you start movin’ real soon,” T.F. says, goin’ for a conversational tone that’s belied by the thickness in his voice and his fingers digging into my neck and back. “Otherwise we might have a problem on our hands.”

I bark a laugh and shift my weight under me, then roll my hips into him once, twice — he takes me so easily, always does, the slide is smooth and sweet and slick even though he still feels so tight around my dick. T.F. gives an approving grunt as I pick up steam. 

Now, as anyone could tell you I ain’t a complicated man. I enjoy a well-made shotgun and a good fight, being paid up front, mediocre liquor and the look T.F. gets in his eyes when he’s come up with somethin’ clever and illegal we’re about to try our hands at. Smoking was good too, I guess, though I try to keep that out of my mind these days for the sake of my sanity and quitting streak. 

But this is better’n all of it. It’s like the thrill when we pull off a job, ‘cept no one’s even shootin’ at us and his eyes are only on me. He’s still grinning, and distantly I realize that so am I. 

Like I said, I ain’t no good with words, that’s always been more his domain, but I do my best to speak through action, to get across in every movement how much I love h — the way it feels when it’s like this, with every part of me that’s touchin’ him and his hand in my hair, his forehead pressed against mine as he moans my name. 

(Sometimes, when the Locker starts loomin’ in the back of my head and some part of me’s bein’ dragged back there, kicking and screaming, this is what I think about to remember where — when — I am. I’d never even dreamed this back then; it belongs to _here_ and _tomorrow_ and _every day after that if I have any damned say in it_ like an anchor, makes it easier to not get carried off by the undertow.) 

The pace builds on itself gradually until I’m pounding into him good and proper and he’s tilting his hips up for it hungrily, low groans coaxed out of him with every thrust — the way his voice is slowly unraveling with it sets my blood alight like sea fire burning on water, hot enough to set all of Bilgewater harbor in an unholy panic. I lean more of my weight forward so I can buck into him even more roughly, sendin’ his voice up into a pleasure-drunk keen, a breathless laugh trailing after it as he lets his thighs widen even more for me, his head falling back against the pillow. There are crow’s feet around his eyes when he smiles like this, one of the few marks age has seen fit to leave on him yet, and I press my face against the curve of his neck to breathe in the smell of him because I’m too far gone for words or sensible gestures but fuck, I want to be close, I want him here with me.

As if he can read my mind he murmurs my name and turns his face to kiss my temple. He drops his head further back to bare his throat and I take the hint, burying my hand in his hair and pulling just enough to make him clench down around me with a moan.

I suck a kiss into his neck, tasting salt skin and leavin’ behind a bruise, low enough that his collar is gonna cover it tomorrow. Well, probably, my aim ain’t the most precise right now. He doesn’t seem to have any complaints anyhow, letting his head fall to one side to give me more room to work while I touch my tongue to his throat like I can taste his pulse there.

“Yesss,” he hisses out as he’s rocked by the strength of my thrusts and his eyes squeeze shut. He reaches down to grope my ass, like he’s trying to draw me in even deeper somehow. 

For a moment I consider flipping him over so I could take him from behind, nail him deeper and harder and really give it to him until his arms tremble and can’t keep him up anymore, but a sting of protest goes through me at the idea of not being able to see his face. Besides he seems plenty pleased with what’s goin’ on already, biting his lip to muffle the worst of the shameless breathy noises he’s makin’ — good thinking, I’m pretty invested in keeping this room and more importantly this bed for a good long while yet. At least the bed’s far enough from the wall that the headboard ain’t knocking into it. 

As a compromise I grab him by the hips and pull him all the way onto me, as deep as I can go in this position, angling myself to brush up against the right places inside him and then stayin’ there as I grind against his backside and feel him slick and hot and tight right up to the base of my dick. Clearly giving up on the attempt to keep it down he howls out and clings to me without any thought spared for dignity or grace, just his gasping cries of enjoyment tumbling out of him in time with my thrusts. 

I manage to get into position to suck at his bottom lip, determined to steal another taste of his mouth even if I’ve gotta stretch awkwardly and bend him nearly in two to get there. He welcomes the kiss, resting his nose along mine when he needs to pull away for breath and then tilting his head to get at it even deeper when he comes back. It’s heady like moonshine, knowing he’s definitely not thinkin’ ‘bout anything else but this right now. 

He gives a heart-rending sound of protest like it’s been punched out of him when I move my mouth away but I can’t help myself; I gotta pause and pull back so I can have a proper look at him between the tangled sheets and the pillows, get to take in the expression of dazed pleasure and how he’s grown flushed and boneless beneath me.

I stare at where he’s stretched around my cock, his thighs slick with sweat and oil and scattered with the pinkened patches of skin that’s the evidence of where my mouth has been on him, his hair ruffled against the pillow and sticking to his forehead. His dick rests hard and leaking against his stomach. His mouth is bitten red and half open as he pants, his eyes wide and slightly wild. Damn, he makes for a pretty picture. It’s almost enough to make a man wish he was born a painter instead of a scoundrel. 

“I still can’t _believe_ this is the one area of life in which you’ve decided to be naturally fuckin’ _patient_ ,” T.F. laments, hitting the back of his head against the pillow a few times. 

“Hey, you call me ‘bull-headed’ and ‘stubborn’ like, literally every other day,” I say, distracted by the bob of his throat as he swallows. “This cannot have come as a surprise to you.”

“That is _not_ the same — aw hell, this is no time to be arguing semantics.” The high-pitched despair in his tone is undercut by laughter. The unrestrained welcome of his body is still imploring me though, too all-encompassing for him to dissemble away from or hide. I want him to know he doesn’t have to. “I — Malcolm.” 

Helpless to the hitch in his voice I relent, following his lead as he makes an urgent sound and hauls me back down to him. I let him claim my mouth with his tongue and his teeth, shiftin’ my weight so I can use my fingers to feel where we’re joined. 

“Malcolm,” he says again between kisses, an edge of pleading entering his tone for all his attempts at making it sound laidback, “I appreciate the instinct to stop and smell the roses, I really do, but could it maybe wait until we — I need — Malcolm, it’s so good, I’m so close, please — ah, yes, _yes,_ please, don’t stop, there, like that, harder — ” 

Another thing he must never, ever find out: I’d do anythin’ he fucking asks me to when his voice sounds like that. Yeah, tell me about it. He figures that one out and I’m done for permanently. 

“’S okay, I’ve got you.” I fumble for his hand to move it down to his dick, guiding him to start jerkin’ himself off because I don’t know how much longer I’ve got in me and I ain’t got the coordination for that kinda precision work at this stage. Thankfully he works with me, giving himself over to it with an abandon that makes me work my cock into him even more ardently, chasing the broken sounds falling from his mouth until nothin’ else seems to exist but him and me. 

For a moment I could swear I see a spark of blue deep in his pupils, that same light as when he’s doin’ the serious magic stuff. 

Then, finally, he arches his back and comes, his breath sobbing out against my shoulder while I fuck him through the aftershocks until it becomes a giddy if still short-winded laugh. He’s runnin’ his hands over every part of me he can reach, kissing my neck as my hips stutter. Damn, I ain’t got no breath left, my head spinnin’. 

His fingers come to rest at the nape of my neck, the touch warm but somehow soothing as he puts his mouth close to my ear and husks out: “Yeah, c’mon, Malcolm, let go. Come for me.”

Somethin’ lets go in my head and everything glides out of focus, the world reduced only to light and sliding home deep into the warmth of his body and his voice murmuring soft words of praise or reassurance I don’t understand but turn towards anyway on instinct. 

I blissfully take leave of my senses a while, my face mashed against his chest and whatever brain cells still cling to life within my skull frolickin’ aimlessly around in the shallows in there.

“Huh,” I manage finally, brushing the tip of my nose through his chest hair. 

T.F. only hums faint agreement in response and rubs the backs of his fingers over the nape of my neck, apparently submerged enough in contentment and afterglow that he doesn’t even grumble about my weight still resting mostly on top of him. When I finally get a hold of myself again I grunt and push up on an elbow so I won’t be squashing the air from his delicate manual-labor-is-something-that-happens-to-other-people-Graves frame anymore. His eyes slide open just enough to gaze up at me. 

I’m never gonna tell him this, ‘cause the last thing he needs is havin’ his ego stroked about it, but he always looks real good like this. Some pink still in his cheeks and dark hair tangled around his face, his grin more contented than smug for once in his damn life. He also looks about three seconds away from passing out snoring, so I clumsily fumble for the covers to pull them over us both.

T.F. mumbles somethin’ incoherent that sounds like approval and tugs me closer with more earnestness than strength or coordination, which somehow moves me faster than either of those could’ve. No, I’m not gonna think about that too hard, thank you very much. He kisses me, soft and a little sloppy, then flops back into immobility as I chuckle and fit myself close along his side. I close my eyes and doze a bit along with him. 

Eventually he stretches and shimmies pleasurably against me, some wakefulness apparently returning to him as he turns his face to nose at my temple. 

“That’s one down,” T.F. says dreamily. “That alcove over there count as a wall on its own, do you think?” 

“Sure. We’re men of resolve; we can define shit however we please.”

He makes a happy sound and runs his fingers through my hair. I feel mellow and snug huddled next to him, like there ain’t anywhere in the world I’d rather be.

There ain’t, really. 

So don’t ask me why I’ve gotta go disturb the contentment and quiet with what I say next, but I’ve always been a martyr to my mouth moving faster than my brain and it looks like that’s one of those that ain’t gonna change with age. 

“Y’know what the worst part was, about thinkin’ I hated you all those years?” I really don’t know what brings me to say it. Not a thing I like to dwell on, not a thing I’d ever thought I’d share with anyone. T.F.’s fingers pause in my hair before they continue their slow back and forth, a hint of wariness in it now even as he makes a sound for me to go on. He doesn’t much like to talk about it either. “That I still missed you. Used to make me angrier than anythin’, that. Sometimes when it got bad I’d have a moment where everything got real confused and I found myself wonderin’… Wonderin’ what the hell was taking you so long with the rescue. Like an instinct I couldn’t shake for the longest time. And that pissed me off more than anything they could do.”

Tobias uses his arms to draw me in closer, his hand still running through my hair. “Sssh,” he says quietly against my neck. His lips brush over my skin. Like a kiss, almost, but chaste like the brush of an angel’s wing. Hah. What can I say, he tries to hide it, but he’s a real sap sometimes. “You don’t have to talk about it if it shakes you up. No explaining needed.”

I turn into the touch, one foot absently tipping back and forth where it’s sticking out from the covers. “‘S okay. I mean, it ain’t fun or anythin’. But it’s okay. It was a long time ago. I, um. Feel better for havin’ said it out loud, kinda.” 

I mean it, too, is the weird thing. Nothin’ ugly and too full of teeth is rising from the depths of my mind to pull me down with it, no ghosts have been summoned like bloated corpses to the surface by speaking it aloud. It’s still just me and him, and also the rumpled state of the bed which would’ve given my old ma a heart attack if she could see it, gods rest her soul and her hot temper if they can. I still get bad days here and there, sure, and the nightmares show up to be assholes occasionally, but the sharp edges are sanded down nowadays, can’t draw the same amount of blood as it did before. I’m not afraid anymore I’ll look at him one day and forget that he tried to come back for my sorry foolhardy ass. And the rest I can live with. 

“I used to assume you were dead,” he says, soundin’ a little distant. I keep quiet; it’s not that often he’ll just come out with things like that, even now, and I’ve learned to keep my big mouth shut to listen when he does. “After a couple of years it… seemed like the better option, whenever I thought about it.” 

He never did strike up with another partner, not in all those years. I think about that, sometimes.

“For what it’s worth, I’m, uh. I’m glad now that I wasn’t. Dead, I mean. I’m glad I’m not. That you’re. Here.” It ain’t elegant or eloquent, but it’s what I’ve got. And it is the truth, which has gotta count for somethin’.

He turns towards me, his face last-hand-at-the-high-stakes-table neutral like he doesn’t want to demand any particular answer from me. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” I clear my throat and reach out to tuck some of his hair away from his eyes, then feel a stab of how much that don’t cut it and lean forward so I can press my forehead against his and then kiss him, dwelling over it like it’s the first time all over again to try to get my point across. I need him to get this. He makes a small sound in his nose, his movements tentative in response even as he returns the kiss. I don’t blame him for being unsure. He’s got ghosts of his own on the water and along the riverbank, and it’s taken a long time for us to get here, first just to make me stop seeing the phantom specter of betrayal hovering in every shadow, and then tryin’ to build something new on that fresh foundation. I hardly need to tell you I ain’t no mason by nature.

But he’s the one thing in my life that’s stayed, ever since I was nineteen and restless and didn’t even know I was alone ‘cause I’d never learned there was an alternative. It took an odd form there for a while, I’ll admit, but he’s the reason I survived the Locker, he wasn’t wrong about that for all that it was a prick move to say it right when he did. We’re partners. 

Hell, if we’d had to build the Citadel of Dawn brick by brick to make this work, I still would’ve done it as long as he was in on it with me. I’ve got natural stubbornness on my side, and runnin’ with him is what makes life fun anyway. 

Now how to tell a man these sorta things without it comin’ out wrong or ending up sounding like a rambling madman. 

“Yeah,” I say, resting my thumb against his bottom lip. “I’m glad we’re still here. I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Tobias. Not unless it’s with you.” 

He looks very young, suddenly. Young, and familiar like my own face. 

I gather him up in my arms when he leans forward to hide his face against my shoulder, rocking him a bit as his hands come to rest against my neck and shoulder, as if to hold on. We stay like that a while, his breath close and wobbly against my skin.

Finally he pulls back to meet my gaze, blinkin’ slow and steady, more like himself again. If his eyes look a tiny bit shiny, well, that ain’t nobody’s business and I ain’t gonna tell. 

I thumb some of his hair away from his temple before giving a small appealing gesture with my hand. “Besides, where the hell would I go? You’re stuck with me now, there ain’t no one else out there dumb enough to put up with me for a lifetime and possibly beyond.” 

He looks at me for a long time, and then he smiles, bumping his nose against mine. I find myself smiling back. 

“Yeah, well. What are partners for?” he says. 

Like I said, he’s the sap. Gotta indulge him sometimes.

I run my fingers over a love bite I’ve left on his chest, still smiling like an idiot. 

“’A lifetime and possibly beyond’, by the way?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

I grunt acknowledgement. “We’ve seen enough weird shit through the years, only wise to hedge your bets some. And I ain’t workin’ with anyone else just ‘cause we died and got carried off by the Harrowing or it turns out there’s an afterlife or whatever.” 

There’s that laugh again, like he just drew an unexpected but not unwelcome card. “Don’t think there’s any call to go get carried off by the Harrowing, Malcolm.”

I shrug as well as I can while lying on my side. “I mean, not like I’m settin’ out to or anything. I’m just sayin’.” 

Still chuckling he rests his extended pointer finger against my shoulder and uses the light pressure of it to nudge me over onto my back. Then he follows after, settling on top of me, the sheets slipping down his body to pool at his hips as he moves. I wind my arms around him to rest my folded hands against the small of his back, using it to steady him and ground his weight down against me.

“Really don’t do it, though,” he says, touching his fingers to my cheek. “’Cause I’d have to come after you and find some way to get you back, and that’d be an embarrassing and tedious process for everyone involved.”

“Don’t think even you could annoy ghosts to death.”

“One, I’m wounded you have so little faith in me. Two, by Luck, I would fucking try. So again: don’t.”

Here's the scary part: I believe him. That’s the thing about nearly drowning to death for a man; it brings your point home pretty forcefully. “Noted.”

He tilts his head to one side. “What was that again?”

“I promise I won’t go and make you chase after my soul like a ball boy, if you promise to do the same in return.”

“ _That’s_ what I like to hear,” he says, beaming. “And sure, I’ll take that deal.”

I huff a laugh at the amount of semi-productive nonsense we just managed between us there. His hair is gathered over one shoulder, still a little mussed. The heat that’d been slumbering sated in my gut gives a new spark, and when I meet his eyes I see it mirrored there, bright and conspiratorial.

“So if the number of walls is up for debate, is the relative position of the parties involved on the table too?” he asks, grinning down at me. “Variety bein’ the spice of life and all.”

“Hm, I ain’t never been a man to stifle the joys of free debate,” I say, running my fingers up the column of his spine. Swapping between rounds is a good call to maximize the fun and minimize the soreness, actually. I love his brain sometimes — when it gets us outta trouble, and especially when it gets us into it, but no one tell him that. “I’d enjoy hearin’ your point of view on this one, at least.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll make it good,” he says, tangling our legs together as he dips his face down to mine for a kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly for me both Blizzard and Riot seem to have figured out that one of the fastest ways to my heart is a good animated short. Also I am weirdly touched by the contrast between Graves’ ‘nearly too hurt to be coherent’ POV in ‘Burning Tides’ to his much more lucid and comfortable voice in ‘Destiny and Fate’… you love to see it, I've said it before but rekindling his marriage has clearly done him a world of good hashtag love heals. So this fic is kind of an extrapolation of that! They are two halves of a whole idiot and I love it so much. 
> 
> [You can find me on tumblr over here!](https://vaguely-concerned.tumblr.com/)


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